


Cracking Up

by Nightshade44



Series: Undivided Attention [2]
Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Jealous Mulder, POV Alex Krycek, POV Dana Scully, Resolved Sexual Tension, Sequel, Slow Burn, The X-Files References, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-02
Updated: 2018-04-10
Packaged: 2019-03-12 17:40:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 19,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13552359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nightshade44/pseuds/Nightshade44
Summary: Krycek’s initial attempt at convincing Scully to join him in furthering the Syndicate’s work has failed, so he’s left her behind to decode the files on his own. He’s not going to shake her that easily, though. There’s a good amount of UST flying back and forth, as well as a fair amount of angst. Then there's some RST. Chapters 8 and 10-12 are NC-17. Beware: Scully still has a potty mouth and a dirty mind. Krycek is still worse. NOTE: This is a sequel. Read “Undivided Attention” first if you want to understand the references in this one.





	1. Chapter 1

AUTHOR’S NOTE: In my pretty little head, Krycek is one of the heroes of the X-Files, not a villain. True, he butts heads with Mulder, but then, name a single, solitary person who doesn’t. Even his mother and Scully want to throttle him on a semi-regular basis. And that Skinner thing? Well, I’m not saying Skinner deserved the nanobots exactly, but he’s been far from squeaky clean in his “transactions” with Krycek. I can think of some plausible reasons he might want to take Skinner down a few pegs. In any case, if you’re one of those people who goes all red in the face and starts foaming at the mouth at the mention of Krycek’s name, then save yourself some grief and look elsewhere for your kicks. If you continue on and your head explodes, it’s your own damn fault. You’re not pinning that on me.

DISCLAIMER: It’s perfectly obvious that I do NOT own these characters, nor am I making any money from this nonsense. I’m merely scratching my Skipper itch.  
All things X-Files, including Scully, Krycek and Mulder, belong to Chris Carter, no matter how much consternation it causes me that he doesn’t know what to do with them.

 

 

“Cracking Up”  
Sequel to “Undivided Attention”  
By Nightshade44

Part 1

October 24  
Rural Missouri

 

The clock reads 3:11 and it dawns on me that my stomach has been growling for some time now. I’ve been at it since about 8:30 this morning and I haven’t had a bite to eat since I waited for the computer to boot up. Somehow that half-eaten bag of stale chips, six M&M’s and the warm, flat soda left over from last night just didn’t cut it. Nonetheless, I’ve made remarkable progress decoding these files. Turns out that each one of them is coded differently, but there are only 7 keys I’ve had to apply so far. And I’ve become an expert in detecting which one works for which. Somehow, I’m almost a quarter of the way through them. So it’s been painstaking, but it wasn’t nearly so hard as it could have been. At least not once I got away from a certain pair of glacier blue eyes.

The content I’ve uncovered, while not quite as earth-shattering as I hoped, is still pretty revealing and much of it will definitely prove useful. If nothing else, three or four of the documents have confirmed a couple of my suspicions. My instincts are apparently still serving me well: I’ve generally been going in the right direction. I allow myself a self-satisfied smile as I stretch and yawn, rub my tired eyes, and slowly re-acclimate my brain to my physical surroundings.

I stand up for the first time in hours and look around this pigsty of a room to dig around for my jacket and find my wallet. I’m too engrossed in my work to actually get in the car and leave for something so trivial as food, and there’s no way in hell I’m risking all this sensitive data or my whereabouts by getting anything delivered, so I’ll have to make due with the snack machines this little shit hole motel in the middle of Nowhere, Missouri has to offer. The next stop I make is going to be at a five star hotel. With a mini-bar and room service. But right now I’d probably squeal like a little girl if there was a Waffle House across the street. I shove a wad of bills in my pocket and open the door...to find darkness. 

It’s 3am, Alex, not 3pm. Jesus. No wonder I’m starving. I guess time flies when you’re decoding top secret government files and scouring their depths for information that will help you save the human race from annihilation at the hands of alien invaders. 

That doesn’t sound too self-aggrandizing, does it? 

The angry growl my stomach gives me reminds me of the task at hand. Time to hit up those vending machines.

“The least you could do, Scully, is bring me some decent food and coffee. Ya know, return the favor.” 

I have no idea why I said that out loud. I guess I said it to the vending machine...there aren’t any people around I could have directed to. The good Doc and I parted company a few days ago. She’s most likely tucked cozily in her bed in Georgetown right now. But she’s definitely not here. 

Although if she was, I’m fairly certain she’d have responded to my suggestion with a rapid fire, crystal clear, “Go fuck yourself, Krycek.” 

Actually, no. That’s too easy, and too crude. She’s far more clever and cutting than that. She’d be more sarcastic, bordering on cruel. She’d say something along the lines of, “Right away, Alex, dear, because ever since you left me stranded on the top of a mountain after kidnapping me with my own gun, engaging in a couple days worth of some truly world-class mind-fuckery, and stealing the zip disk that I’ll need to somehow explain to Mulder is now gone, I’ve been desperate to figure out how to repay your kindness.” 

I think I just said all that out loud, too. It’s bordering on pathetic how much I already miss her. Nah. It’s crossed the border. It’s most truly, genuinely pathetic. Even when that razor sharp tongue of hers was slicing me into bloody strips I didn’t want her to leave. In fact, it made me even more desperate to convince her to stay. Why the hell is that? Maybe if I had Mulder’s psych degree I’d understand it. 

Ha! That last thought brings tears to my eyes. I’m laughing so hard, so suddenly, that I nearly drop the handfuls of snacks I’ve just selected to serve as my dinner. I don’t care what Oxford says, and I don’t give a shit how many degrees the guy has. He’s more clueless than anyone when it comes to Dana Scully. And he’s an idiot. He’s a clueless fucking idiot.

“You’re a clueless fucking idiot, Mulder! She’s brilliant and beautiful and so fucking, wickedly funny and she’s totally into you and you’ve WASTED it. You’ve thrown away YEARS!” The door to my motel room doesn’t offer any response to my keen insight. That doesn’t stop me from continuing to talk to it, though.

“Alex, it’s probably not a healthy sign that you’re holding imaginary conversations with Scully and Mulder in your head. You need to get something in your stomach and then crash for a few hours. You’re delirious.” 

“And you’re talking to yourself in the third person, too.”

Delirious or not, I’m still grinning at my/her little joke. Scully’s really funny. Even when she’s a figment of my imagination.

I inhale the crackers and cookies and other crap I got from the vending machine and wash it all down with a soda. The sugar makes me even crazier for a bit, pulse rapid and nerves jumping. Makes me pace around the room like a caged animal, heart racing, sweating and twitching, and talking out loud to myself the whole time. I imagine her there, calling me out.

“‘Parted company’, Krycek? That’s a seriously sanitized version of how you suddenly extracted yourself from my arms, pulled your boots on and walked out the door with not so much as a ‘see ya later, Scully’. ‘ And, ‘tucked cozily in her bed’? That’s an utter dismissal of the fallout from your little stunt. Truth is you have no idea where I might be or if I’m safe. You fucked me over six ways to Sunday. Just left me stranded at a remote location without a car or phone reception, not a single soul knowing where I was. With a twisted ankle--knowing I’d have to leave on foot down a damned mountain. AND you took the fucking disk, too! ‘Oh, I need your help, Scully, I can’t go on like this alone, Scully. You’re so smart and pretty, Scully. Let’s work together and rule the world, Scully.’ What a load of crap, Alex.”

“You just called me ‘Alex.’” Let’s see if changing the subject can get me off the hook with my own guilty conscience.

“I called you ‘Alex’ because ‘Krycek’ sounds far too adult for someone behaving like a child.” 

Guess not.

“I’m sorry, OK? Is that what you want to hear? But you’re the one who cut me off at the knees with your whole ‘I gotta tell Mulder all about this’ shit.”

“Oh, please. Did you honestly believe for one single, solitary nano-second that I WOULDN’T tell Mulder every word of it?”

“I wanted to earn your trust, and I got caught up in trying to defend myself, to justify my past decisions. I wanted you to understand why I did those things. To know that I had valid reasons…”

“Ahh, yes, that’s right, your ‘valid reasons’...the ones where you protect your own family at the cost of every other person who happens to cross your traitorous path? The ones where YOUR sister’s life is more valuable than MY sister’s life?”

That stings. More than a little. I turn the accusation over and over again in my tired, sugar-laden, nutrient-deprived brain and can’t come up with anything close to a worthy reply. Guess I’ve got to cede that point to ‘her’.

Conscience 1, Alex 0. 

I never lose to my conscience anymore. Never. There’s no way I’ll let this go, but I’ll have to wait for my chance to even the score because the sugar crash hits me like a freight train. I collapse onto the bed, and the last thing my brooding, broken brain can think of is how I’ve got to figure out a way to make this up to her.


	2. Chapter 2

October 28, 1:57pm  
Washington, DC

 

“Agent Scully?” 

I look up from my computer to find Holly hovering in the doorway. 

“Hi, Holly. Can I help you?”

She steps inside as I stand up from my desk and pull my glasses off. 

“I just wanted to deliver this package to you. It required a signature, so I wanted to make sure it got into your hands. It’s gone through all the security scans.” She hands the oversized manila envelope to me and I thank her, absently, as I put my glasses back on to examine the mailing label. It’s postmarked from St. Louis and there’s no return address. I flip it over, looking for any other markings, any signs at all that might indicate who the sender is.

I’m still puzzling over it a moment later when I hear Mulder in the hall, exiting the elevator and greeting Holly with a distinct trace of wariness in his voice. Finding any human being at all in our office, or even in the whole of the basement floor, triggers a level of territorialism in him that would befit a bloodhound. Even sweet, helpful, unassuming, little Holly isn’t above suspicion. I find his paranoid diligence to be, well, not annoying, exactly. But exhausting...and rather sad. 

I watch him step inside, his eyes landing immediately on the envelope in my hands. “Anything interesting?”

“I don’t know yet, Holly just brought it down and I can’t figure out who it’s from.”

“Only one way to find out…”

I pull my top desk drawer open and rummage around briefly for my trusty letter opener. A flick of my wrist sends the stack of papers inside falling onto my desk and landing with a soft thud. There are maybe 40 or 50 pages and a short handwritten note, which I snatch up to examine more closely, hoping to find out who sent this to me. I immediately recognize the handwriting, and it surprises me completely, even before I actually read what it says. “Work progressing slowly. More soon. -AK” 

I feel the corner of my mouth tug up just a bit before I can stop it. I think back to holding another brief note from ‘AK’ and the very strange and confusing, but not altogether unpleasant, day I received it flits through my mind. 

As soon as Mulder got back from California I told him all about the two days or so that I spent with Krycek. Well, okay, not everything. There were a few details, some snippets of conversation, that I kept to myself, but I offered up nearly the entire event to him. I have to say that he ended up taking it better than I expected. Which is not to say that he took it well...just that it could have been worse. He was angry, and utterly dismissive of most of the information that Krycek gave to me. Of course what really pissed him off is that I had believed even a single, solitary word that “that rat bastard” had spoken. There’s been so much complicated history between them, and this has made it a thousand times worse. I’m pretty sure that if Mulder ever lays eyes on Krycek again he won’t live to tell me or anyone else any more tales. 

After the initial yelling and gnashing of teeth, he barely spoke for about three days, while he brooded and pouted and refused to look at me. But his fowl mood eventually evaporated and in the past couple of days things have been better. Not really normal, but at least there’s communication, even a little conversation, and eye contact again. Makes me wonder how he’s going to take this...will it help or hurt?

My reaction to reading this new note must have been more visible than I’d realized because Mulder calls my name, halting my ruminating, and steps towards me. 

I look up over my glasses at him. “Well, Mulder,” I reveal with a tiny bit of gratification, “it seems Krycek has decided to share after all.” 

He verbalizes nothing, but eyes me rather incredulously, looking back and forth between the contents of the package and my face. I’m not sure if that’s due to his curiosity about the material or if he’s still harboring resentment over my little jaunt with Krycek. I suppose it could be both. But at this particular moment I realize that I don’t really care. At least not enough to erase the self-satisfied smirk that’s crept onto my face.


	3. Chapter 3

“Cracking Up”  
Part 3

October 28, 7:57pm  
Washington, DC

 

I’ve just gotten myself arranged properly--mug of hot tea, my trusty legal pad, a fresh package of post it notes, my laptop--in my favorite warm, flannel pjs, sitting cross-legged on the floor, back against the couch, the papers of Krycek’s package spread out over the clean coffee table in neat little stacks that I’m eager to dive into, when the phone rings. I want to ignore it. It’s way over there on the table under the window and I don’t want to get up and I don’t want to get distracted from the task at hand. But I’m Dana Scully. I don’t ignore ringing phones. It could be my mom. It damn well better be my mom.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Agent Scully. I take it you received my package.” 

I’m not exactly sure why the sound of his voice should startle me, but it does. It’s not cold or menacing at all, but I’m suddenly on high alert and my pulse quickens. My eyes dart over to my gun before returning to the papers on the coffee table. I’m pleased that he’s sharing information, maybe trying to make amends for the utter mess he made out of my weekend (and my psyche) a couple weeks back, but he must know it’s not nearly enough to convince me to forgive him. Or trust him. 

“I was just getting ready to dissect it.” I hope my voice is reflecting the edge, the vague threat I try to convey in both my tone and choice of words. 

The soft, barely-audible chuckle I hear on the line confirms that it didn’t.

“That’s an accurate way to describe the process I’ve been going through. It’s also why I’ve called. I was hoping you could help me interpret something. ”

I hesitate, a bit perturbed by his presumptuousness, but I’m curious. Of course I am. “What is it?”

“It’s medical and it’s too sensitive, and too extensive, to do over the phone.”

I close my eyes and sigh at the implication. 

“I’m not asking for anything tonight, Agent Scully. I’ll be in touch.”

I’m about to raise my voice and practice some of the more colorful phrases I developed over the course of my navy brat youth, but he cuts me off before I get started.

“By the way, you should have your apartment swept for bugs again. You probably don’t want just anyone seeing you in those pajamas.” 

I lower the receiver and just stare at it for a moment after I hear the dial tone. The man has a truly uncanny ability to get my ire up. 

I immediately dial a number I know by heart, stabbing at each button with enough force to make my finger ache, and let some of this anger out on a certain trio who clearly deserve some.

“Lone Gunman.”

“It’s Scully. Get your asses back over here. Pronto. You need to finish the job you started.”

I slam the phone down, not waiting for an answer from Langly. Then I snatch up the now room temperature tea and take it into the bathroom to swallow a couple ibuprofen tablets. I can feel the headache starting to throb in my temples. Once again Krycek’s shot my weekend plans to hell. Once again he’s tried to convince me that it’s for my own good. That’s the part that sticks in my throat. 

No time to think about it, though. I’ve got to get dressed and supervise more closely this time while the place gets turned upside down. Another delightful Friday night with the guys. God, I need some girlfriends.


	4. Chapter 4

November 11  
Washington, DC

 

It’s 4:12pm. It’s Friday. And it’s been a hell of a long week but I’m shutting down my computer. I have just finished the report that’s due on Skinner’s desk on Monday morning, and as I pull my glasses off, I let my arms stretch out, arch my back, and allow a long, soft sigh to signal the beginning of the weekend. 

My partner’s been engrossed with online research for hours and barely looks up when I deposit the report on his desk. “All you need to do is sign, Mulder. I’ll see you Monday.”

His reply is short and mumbled and he may have wished me a good weekend, but I couldn’t swear by it. His attention is elsewhere, and although he’s being rather annoyingly cavalier, I’m grateful I don’t have to engage in any small talk and can just get out of the office. The sooner I step into my bathtub, and away from the tension his presence brings, the happier I’ll be.

The parking garage is busy with all the other G-men who had the same idea and opportunity to sneak out a little early, so I don’t pay any special attention to any of the three people who come into view from the far left of my peripheral vision. At least not until I see that one of them has stopped right beside my car. I halt in my tracks, about 80 feet away, and note the man’s black hair and conspicuously non-FBI-like mode of dress. As I begin to think that maybe I recognize the leather jacket he’s wearing, the way the collar of it is turned up against the wind, he turns to face me. My mouth goes dry.

I haven’t seen him since our trip to North Carolina, over a month ago. I haven’t even heard from him in two weeks, but I was wondering when he’d pop up again, seeking my help. There’s an odd, unfamiliar nervousness settling over me. It dawns on me that maybe I’m a little relieved to see him. To know that he’s ok. I also realize that I’m curious about the medical information he mentioned in our last conversation and I’m hoping he’s got it with him so I can finally see it. 

I start walking again, even picking up the pace a bit. Now he’s leaning back against the driver’s side door and as I raise my eyes to his, he flashes me a wide, brilliant smile. I’ve never seen Krycek smile like that before. It’s...Jesus...it’s maybe the deadliest weapon in his extensive arsonal. It makes me want to turn and run far, far away from here as fast as I can. It also makes me want to run straight ahead into his arms again as fast as I can. I’ve got to slow down and think. I’ve got to figure out where the happy medium lies.

Mephistopheles, I remind myself. 

I focus on the weight of the gun at my hip, hoping desperately that he doesn’t force me to draw it on him. 

I have to stop for the two cars that drive slowly past on their way out, and as I hurry across in their wake, he’s nowhere to be seen. I now stand in the spot he just occupied and turn in a complete circle, craning and squinting and finding nothing. I shake my head and give another cursory glance around as I settle into the seat and shut the door, locking it immediately. 

Just as I’m wondering what his appearance was for--why would he show himself in broad daylight in the Hoover Building garage when it’s crawling with agents? Is he just trying to show off?--I start the engine and then I notice it. I step out to retrieve the note pinned under the windshield wiper and feel a little thrill shoot through me like it did when he sent his last note, weeks ago. 

Locking myself inside again, I ignore the slight shaking in my hands and unfold the paper. “If you’re still willing to help: Renato’s, 8:30. Dinner’s on me.”

My eyes scan the garage again and, finding him just as absent as before, I re-read the note and then put the car in gear. As I pull out of the parking space and make my way out, I realize, much to my chagrin, that my heart is pounding and I’m smiling. I’m grinning like a dope, and I can’t seem to will my own muscles to relax to get rid of it. I begin to wonder what the hell is wrong with me, when I get a sudden and crystal clear flash of memory. 

I’m turning around slowly when the toe of my shoe catches on the lip of the old wooden trunk I’m standing on and I’m suddenly in free fall. Before I can contemplate the best way to brace for impact, I’m in his arms. Krycek has dropped the flashlight, sinking us into darkness as he sinks with me to the floor. And then I’m surrounded by him, being cradled by him, his legs under me, his arms around me protectively, his cheek resting on the top of my head, his breath stirring my hair. And the craziest part is that I put my arms around him, too, and buried my face in that same black leather jacket I just saw him wearing. And for about 90 seconds...90 whole, glorious, seconds...I allowed myself to stop thinking and simply relax and breathe. 

I remember other things: the way he smelled, the way he sighed with genuine relief when he pulled me tight against his chest. The oceanic depth and color of his eyes when he looked me up and down like he wanted to devour me. The smokey tone of his voice when he tried to intoxicate me with lavish compliments. The vulnerability he allowed me to see when he showed me the photo of his sisters, and later, the next day when he was in my arms and we talked and wept together over our loses and the craziness of the world we’re both caught up in. He made me forget for a brief few hours that I was an FBI agent and when we talked like that I just felt raw and human; stripped of pretense and preconceived notions. 

It felt authentic. 

Rare. 

Elemental.

It was a real and deep connection. And try as I might to erase its significance, to reason it away as another part of his double agent agenda, I can’t. I know Krycek. My eyes are wide open--I knew him before he broke into my apartment and talked me into driving across 4 states with him. My eyes and ears were wide open the entire time. I know full well who I’m dealing with. And I understand him better now. I get his motives and position now. I abhor a lot of the things he’s done--and he admitted to more horrible things than I ever knew of before--and I do not condone them. But I understand the bigger picture now. And I know that despite all the horror he’s brought into my own life, and into Mulder’s, and Skinner’s, and to so many others, we’re working towards the same ultimate goal. And like me and Mulder and Skinner, he’s one of the few people who understands what’s coming. One of the very few who has both the knowledge and the stomach to try to stop it.

I can’t turn my back on that or deny that it’s changed me. Not even for Mulder’s sake. He can refuse to believe Krycek as a matter of principle, or just out of pure spite, but that doesn’t mean it’s not in his best interest to listen. 

Before I know it, I’m walking into my apartment and I don’t even remember driving home. I’m still lost in thought and as I start to shed my work clothes and try to find a more appropriate outfit for dinner my thoughts shift from the recent past to the near future. Should I shower first? Should I dress up? What is he expecting? What is he hoping for?

This isn’t a date, Dana. This is business. 

A business dinner. 

A business dinner with a drop-dead gorgeous man who could pass for a Calvin Klein model. A man who called you “prepossessing” and “fascinating”. And “beautiful.” A man who you had wrapped in your arms while you both cried. A man who just flashed you a smile of seemingly pure delight the moment you looked at him.

Jesus Christ.

I walk into the bathroom wearing only my underwear and stare at my reflection. I’m pink. I’m flushed from my hairline to my chest, and I’m nervous as hell. And I don’t know what I’m going to do to get my sensible, logical brain to reel in my shaky, treasonous body. 

“How the hell am I going to get through the rest of the evening without making a complete fool of myself?”

My reflection tells me, “He ditched you at the cabin, stole the disk, and now he’s doling out bits and pieces of information whenever the whim strikes him. He’s used you from the beginning and he’s trying to use you tonight. He wants you to do his work for him and all he’s going to give you in return is dinner.”

“He’s also driving a wedge between you and Mulder, and if Mulder finds out you’re meeting with him again--and of your own free will--he’ll likely murder both of you.”

I stare hard in the mirror and begin to sober up. I love Mulder. I may even be IN love with Mulder. Hurting him is the last thing I’d ever want to do. I don’t want to betray his trust or give him any reason to withdraw his from me. 

And, yet, I feel my bra and panties fall to the floor and I step out of them and into a steamy shower. I select a dress appropriate for the upscale restaurant, and just maybe a little bit out of line for a business meeting. I curl my hair just a little more than I usually do for the office, and go easy on the makeup. 

In the living room I pull my gun from the holster and put it in my purse. Well, I’m not completely insane.

It’s 8pm when I climb into my car, and as I crank up the engine I feel another surge of adrenaline. I pull out from the curb and remind myself, “Just keep breathing, Dana.”

Both my blush and my smile have returned in full force. I’m still 30 minutes away...I need a distraction. 

I turn the radio on and the words that immediately greet me could not be more appropriate:  
“And I was thinkin’ to myself, this could be heaven or this could be hell…”

I think I’m prepared for both. 

My smile widens and my foot presses down a little more forcefully on the accellerator.


	5. Chapter 5

I’m always early for every appointment. Most people would call it ridiculously early, but it goes with the line of work. I arrived at the restaurant an hour and a half ago, and there’s still 20 minutes to go before our reservation time. I skulked around the building, twice, circled the block, climbed up to the top of the two tallest buildings that overlook this place. I got my high powered binoculars out and peered into every window and alleyway and rooftop, every fire escape and parked car. I walked right into the kitchen through the back door and made a note of the exits. I don’t usually appear out in public in DC, and it’s making me nervous. But I now know a number of escape routes.

I had been worried that I was going to become a fool for this woman. This afternoon my worries ceased, though. It’s happened already. It’s done, so there’s no need to waste time worrying about it anymore. I’m a fool, officially, and it’s probably going to get me killed. Thus, those escape routes help me feel a little more prepared.

When I laid eyes on her this afternoon in the parking garage I felt like a man stepping out of a deep, lonely cave who was seeing the sun for the first time in months. When she made eye contact it was all I could do to stay put. I had to force myself to actually lean back against her car, away from the gravitational pull of her, in order to not move. I managed to stop my feet, but I couldn’t stop my smile. It had been wonderful, two weeks ago, to hear her voice, all exasperation and indignation, on the phone. She sounded THIS close to telling me to kiss her ass. I’m chuckling just thinking about it. But seeing her today...watching her glide through that grey, winter parking garage with her auburn hair being blown back by the wind, and her blue suit and azure eyes flashing...I don’t remember seeing any color in that place except her. 

I stepped into the shadows as her eyes shifted to study the traffic, and I watched from a mere 20 feet away as she hunted around for me, looking--dare I hope?--disappointed in my disappearance. I watched her find and read my note. I was worried that, like the phone call, she would take umbrage with me, and basically toss the paper aside with a roll of her eyes. I was prepared to be dismissed.

But instead she utterly surprised me.

From the moment her eyes landed on the folded piece of paper on her car, to the moment she drove away, she looked flushed and nervous. But she was also smiling. I’m pretty sure her hands were shaking when she read the words I’d written, inviting her to dinner, asking for her help. She looked pleased, and she started looking around, eyes wide, trying again to catch sight of me. Then she read the note again, and her smile grew. 

She stunned me. She stunned me in the best possible way.

So much so that I went shopping. I bought myself a whole new set of clothes just for tonight. I suddenly didn’t want to wear my leather jacket or my well-worn boots to the restaurant. I wanted to show her a different version of me. It may not work at all, but I’m going to try to stun her right back.

I’m now dressed in the most expensive suit I’ve ever owned, with shirt, sweater, shoes and overcoat that work impeccably with it. When I walked out of the dressing room to take a look in the three way mirror I caught a glimpse of the two sales girls who had helped me pick the items out. The pretty, dark one was openly smiling, and the cute little blonde one was biting her lip. I winked at them in the mirror. The dark one just shook her head as if to softly admonish me, but the blonde dipped her head and hid her eyes as she blushed. I’m not the least bit interested in either of the girls. But, if this suit can make my favorite redhead blush and bite her lip, then it will have been worth every penny. 

The girls in the shop may have just been putting on an act, though. That’s how they earn their commission, after all. But the hostess at the restaurant, she had nothing to gain from that appreciative look she gave me before showing me to my table. I flash her a smile as she leaves and she gives me another look. One that says, “If your date doesn’t work out, you know where to find me.” I quirk an eyebrow back and although I find no interest in her, either, I’m grateful for the approval. It’s always nice to have the old ego boosted.

The waiter comes around and I order a bottle of wine and then peruse the menu, feeling self-assured and even a bit cocky. I’m imagining Scully walking in here and reacting like the other females have. I’m imagining her swooning, unable to resist my charms. Until I look up towards the doorway.

The hostess is blocking most of her from view, but I know that hair, I know it’s her. She’s helping Scully remove her coat, then she walks away with it, allowing me to see her fully. She’s in ¾ profile and that fitted, curve-hugging, dusky purple dress is my new favorite thing in the world. She spots something on her knee and bends to brush it off, and as the hostess returns, she stands straight again, giving her hair a little toss to get it out of her face. 

Fuck. Me. 

One of us is swooning here, but it’s not her. 

I stand up and when she spots me I smile widely. I can’t believe my luck, that I get to sit across from this stunning creature for an evening. She smiles back, and it nearly gives me a heart attack. 

As the hostess approaches, with Scully just a pace behind, I pull her chair out. She cocks her head, and shakes it a bit, as if seeing me playing the role of a gentleman is amusing her. She takes her seat, I push the chair in, and as I sit the waiter arrives with the wine. He pours the requisite taster and I nod my approval. He fills our glasses while telling us about the specials, and then takes his leave.

I raise my glass, nodding to her with another smile, before I take another sip. She mirrors me with her own nod, then, with a sardonic tone, asks, “Are you actually going to talk to me, Krycek, or are we just going to stare at each other?”

That makes me smile the biggest, goofiest, widest smile I'm capable of. I think my face might be sore tomorrow from it. “You should feel free to talk all you want. But you and that dress have rendered me speechless. Are you trying to kill me, Scully?”

She rolls her eyes, but smiles and rises to the occasion. “For the record, you should always assume I’m trying to kill you, Krycek.”

I laugh and smile wide again. “Well then, Scully, you should know that this is my very favorite assassination attempt of all time.”

She shakes her head at me again and pulls the menu up in front of her face. Her shy smile and that warm blush are now hidden from my view, but as I watch her eyes drift across the menu, not focusing, trying desperately to NOT dart up to my face, I know they’re still there. 

I am SO glad I bought this suit.


	6. Chapter 6

Alex Krycek is driving me right out of my mind. 

There are top secret files pertaining to government medical experiments to examine and translate. There’s no sign of them here...no folders, no papers, no computer disks...he hasn’t even mentioned them yet.

There are other files. The files he sent me a few weeks ago. Others that he’s been able to unlock since then. How many of them reveal projects and plans that we need to prepare for or even interfere with? He hasn’t mentioned those either. 

There’s also the elephant in the room. Last time we spent more than 10 minutes together he ended up ditching me. Big time. And although I’m assuming this dinner is some lame attempt to help make amends for that, he hasn’t mentioned that, either. 

And all of that is pretty much pissing me off. Does he think I have both the time and inclination to just meet him for dinner and chat like old friends? Who the hell does he think he is?

I lean back against my chair and begin sipping on my third glass of wine. I look at my dinner companion as he finishes the last of his meal and note the absolutely flawless presentation. From that thick black hair, to the thick black eyelashes, to the deep, rich burgundy turtleneck sweater, to the charcoal grey suit and those expensive-looking wingtips, every detail is absolutely perfect.

To say nothing of the aftershave he’s wearing. Or the flirty smiles, flirty eyes, flirty banter, and flirty everything else he keeps tossing in my direction. And have I mentioned that he’s utterly gorgeous, even without all these things?

I set my glass down and push it away. I’m quite intoxicated enough, thank you. 

Intoxicated enough, in fact, to just cut to the chase.

“What are we doing here, Krycek?”

He looks up to find my eyes as he dabs his lips with his napkin and takes a long sip of his wine before answering, “We’re having dinner, Scully.”

“Why?”

“Why not?”

I give him my “give me a fucking break” look and cock my head. 

He chuckles at me. Again. He’s been doing that all night. “To be honest, I felt I owed you. It wasn’t very nice of me to abandon you like that, even if you were abandoned in your family’s home. So I wanted to try to make it up to you...or at least make a small, initial attempt to make it up to you.”

“So this has nothing to do with the medical files you requested my help with?”

“Well, of course, there’s that, too.”

“Something tells me you’re going to owe me a hundred expensive dinners, Krycek.”

He smiles warmly at me and leans in a couple inches. “I’m looking forward to paying my bills.”

He starts to take another sip of wine when I toss out another observation. “I haven’t seen any files or any indication at all of the work that needs to get done. In fact I’m starting to think that the real point of this evening has absolutely nothing to do with any top secret files.”

He smiles again. “And just what are your investigative instincts telling you that this IS about?”

I hesitate a moment, trying to decide if I want to actually say it out loud. What the hell. Someone needs to have the balls to clear the air. “Well, since you’ve been flirting with me since this afternoon, I’d wager that you’re attempting to lure me into your bed.”

He chuckles at that, and takes a sip of water. 

“As I recall, Scully, YOU were the one who crawled into MY bed.”

Ok, so that’s true enough, although it was a completely different situation. Wasn’t it?

“Yeah, and look how that turned out.”

His smile fades into what can best be described as a smoldering look. “I sincerely wanted it to turn out completely differently.”

Whew...this is getting real, now isn’t it? His words and demeanor are both a bit unsettling. But I’m determined to get a straight answer from him. “So what are your hopes for this evening? Do you want to secure my help with the files or do you just want to get into my panties?”

That smoldering look turns into a downright lecherous leer. “Don’t make me choose, Scully.”

If he’s trying to shock me he should have said that before I started drinking. “Does this mode of seduction usually work for you? Ditching a woman at the top of a mountain? Are they generally eager to crawl into bed with you after that?”

I’m met with another smoldering look. “I’ll have to answer that question tomorrow morning.”

I shake my head in disbelief. What the hell is it going to take to throw him off track?

“You must be completely insane, Alex. It’s going to take more than a nice dinner to earn my forgiveness, and much, much more before you could ever hope to get me in bed.”

“I’d love a complete list of tasks and requests. I’d love to get started right away.” I open my mouth to repeat my diagnosis of insanity… ”Also, you just called me ‘Alex’.”...and then close it when I realize that I DID just use his first name. I just stare at my empty plate wondering what in the hell that slip meant.

“Cat got your tongue, Dana?”

I look at him again, although I can’t think of a single thing to say. Maybe that was my fourth glass of wine?

His eyes are very green. His face is completely beautiful. He’s clever and funny and seductive. And he has access to all kinds of information.

“Mephistopheles.”

He laughs. “Is that what you think of me?”

I can’t tell if he’s flattered or just surprised. In any case, he doesn’t seem to be offended, and that in itself is pretty telling. Pretty damning. Pardon the pun.

“I’m going home. Good luck with those files.”

“Scully…”

I’m already standing. “Goodnight, Krycek. Thanks for dinner, but this will be our last one.”

“Scully, don’t go.” He stands and takes a step towards me. 

“I’m armed.” He stops his hand in mid-air as it was about to reach for mine.

“Why are you leaving? I thought you of all people would appreciate honesty. But I didn’t mean to freak you out.”

Am I freaked out? Because he was being honest with me? 

“I’m not the devil, Dana. I assure you I’m trying to do everything I know to do to fight off the devils.”

He looks desperate all of a sudden.

“I’m sorry if I frightened you. I’ll stop. I’ll be the consummate professional. No more flirting. Please stay. Please say you’ll help me with the files. I need you.”

I’m stuck between wanting to walk away and sober up before making any more decisions and wanting to sit back down and give him the benefit of the doubt that he can keep his word. I came here to gather information. I really don’t want to leave empty handed.

“I’m going to require dessert.”

He sighs and smiles in relief.

“And no more flirting.”

He closes his eyes and shakes his head, “You win. No more flirting. Promise.”

He moves around to the back of my chair and I take my seat again. “Don’t make me regret this, Krycek. You won’t get any more chances.”

He shakes his head again. “Message received, Scully. Loud and clear.”


	7. Chapter 7

OK, I admit it. I’m glad I stayed. It looks like these medical files are pretty amazing. Of course, I mean “amazing” in the worst, most terrifying way possible. There’s so much data on so many American citizens here that Krycek hasn’t even bothered to print any of it. Well, except the four pages he presented me with back in the restaurant, handed over after we had finished dessert and coffee, to entice me to follow him to his lair.

Because it was so utterly shocking, and because he’d actually straightened himself out and been behaving as the consummate professional he’d promised to be, I’d agreed to spend even more time with him tonight. So, contrary to my better judgement, I got into my car and drove to his hotel. I knocked on his door and sat down on the sofa, took up his laptop and began scouring the files. For a while he sat close by, in the armchair, watching me and asking questions, wanting to know if the data indicated what he thought it indicated. I finally just looked up into his eyes, and although I couldn’t really speak, reeling as I was from the scope and magnitude of it, he found his answer in my face nonetheless. Seeing my expression that confirmed his darkest suspicions, he lowered his eyes, drew in a deep breath, then got up and poured two glasses of whiskey, neat, from the minibar. I haven’t touched mine, but I think he’s had at least a couple more. 

I’m not really paying attention, though, as I copy data sets, put them into spreadsheets so I can sort and organize them, trying to finding patterns. I do this over and over again, saving and sending files to my email, working through hundreds of pages but covering only the slightest fraction of what’s here. 

I suddenly realize that I’m exhausted. I look at the corner of my screen and I’m only partially surprised to learn that it’s just after 4am. I roll my head around on my neck a couple times and push the computer aside, letting it fall off my lap and onto the couch. I stand up in my stocking feet and forgo stepping back into my heels as I look around the lavishly decorated suite and try to determine where the bathroom is. 

Also, where the hell is Krycek? His coat and suit jacket are lying neatly over one of the chairs, and his shoes have been abandoned, too. I don’t remember him removing them...I don’t remember how long ago he left this room, either.

I don’t hear a sound. I round a corner, find a bathroom, and lock the door behind me. I’m still in my dress and realize that I’m rather uncomfortable now. I’d love to get out of it and into some pajamas or sweats, but that’s not going to happen until I get home. I wonder if Krycek would let me take the disk home with me. I need sleep, but I don’t want to give up what I’ve been working on.

I leave the bathroom and decide I need to find Krycek so I can negotiate the next steps. I walk into the kitchen area instead, and pause there to get a glass of water. God, this suite is huge and elaborate. There’s a large basket of fruit, chocolates, and a bottle of champagne on the counter. It must be costing him a small fortune. I guess crime really does pay.

“Scully?”

I’m startled by his voice behind me. It causes my hand to slip on the glass, and I can only follow it with my eyes as it drops to the floor and shatters spectacularly. 

“Shit.”

His laugh makes me turn around so I can scold him, but just as I’m looking up to him to give him a piece of my mind, I step on some glass. His smile disappears immediately and he narrows his eyes when he sees me wince, and then all of a sudden, before I even register that he’s drawing near, he’s scooped me up in his arms and turning to carry me back to the living room. 

Both my arms have found their way around his neck and I vaguely register that he still smells faintly of aftershave and his breath of whiskey, but the sharp pain in my foot overrides my other senses too much to enjoy his proximity. He carries me through the living room and into a bedroom. 

“Alex!” Why did I use his first name again?

“Shut up, Scully, you’re bleeding.” His voice is terse and non-nonsense, and it effectively silences me from any further protest.

He deposits me onto the bed, sitting me up, with my legs hanging over the edge, and leaves me there. He hurries into the adjacent bathroom and brings a toiletry bag and bottle of alcohol back with him. He sits on the floor in front of me and wets a cotton ball with the alcohol. He takes my foot in his hand and proceeds to gently clean up the blood. It hurts, but seeing him in that burgundy sweater, being able to fully appreciate the way it fits him, not to mention the sincere expression of concern and concentration on his face, well, it does help distract me a little bit.

“It’s not too bad, Scully. There’s one big piece and two small ones. I don’t think any of them are too deep, but I guess we’ll see once I pull them out. And I’m afraid your stockings are a lost cause.” He pinches the material around my ankle and tears it away from my foot, leaving the bloody tatters of my nylons hanging from around my knee as he steralizes some tweezers with the alcohol and then again dabs gently to wipe away new spots of blood before pulling my foot up closer to his eyes. 

He looks up and warns me, “Here goes.”

I grit my teeth as he pulls the glass out and I feel it tugging at my flesh, not wanting to be removed. But he’s determined, and keeps at it until all three pieces are free. 

The pain is sharp, and makes me groan a bit and fidget. He sets the tweezers aside and then smooths the flat of his thumb slowly and gently along the ball of my foot, feeling for any glass that may have been missed. I hiss as he brushes over the largest wound, and his eyes lift up to mine again.

“Sorry. But it’s not too bad. I think you’ll live.”

“Is that your official diagnosis, Doc?” 

He chuckles at that as he dabs at the wounds again, removing the blood that just keeps oozing, and finally presses two clean, alcohol-soaked cotton balls against them. He looks up at me with a soft, compassionate smile and it makes me rather weak in the knees. He has great bedside manner.

“Can you hold these in place for a minute?”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

I lean down to do as he asked and then move my fingers away when his hand brushes mine as he wraps some gauze around my foot to hold the cotton balls in place. 

“Is it too tight?”

“No, it’s good. Thanks, Krycek.”

He smiles at me. “At your service, my lady.”

I smile back at him and suddenly remember what I needed to ask him. I look at my foot, my leg still extended out fully and watch it as I twist my ankle around and flex my toes, testing my bandages and intentionally avoiding his eyes, hoping to appear casual and nonchalant.

“Krycek, I want to take the disk home with me. I need to sleep before I can dive back into it.”

“You’re sleeping here tonight.”

I look at him, head cocked and eyebrows arched, and he raises his arms in a gesture of surrender as he quickly amends his statement.

“I’m not trying anything untoward, Agent Scully. It’s late, you’re tired and now you’re wounded, too. Take this bedroom, and I’ll take the other one. We’ll get some sleep and work on it tomorrow.”

“I...I don’t have anything to sleep in.”

God, Dana, I admonish myself, that’s the least of your worries.

“I’ve got some clothes you can use.”

“I could take a cab...”

“Don’t go. Please. This doesn’t have to be awkward. I need your help, Scully, but you’re not taking that disk again. Plus, we need to talk. You haven’t told me what you’ve found, and I’m not sure I can let you out of my sight until I know.”

I sigh and look down at my lap. “You’re not going to like it.”

“No, but then I assumed that from the first page the hacker sent me months ago.”

I look back into his face and I’m surprised to note that he looks older now than I remember. There’s a world-weariness there that I’m assuming he’s just very good at keeping hidden most of the time. He’s too tired right now to hide it, though. He stands slowly and he holds my eyes as he does. I don’t really have a worthwhile reply to his last statement, so I don’t bother to try. He bends down, swipes up his bag and the bloody remains of his surgery and takes it all into the bathroom. I hear him arranging items on the counter and then the toilet flushes. When he reemerges he walks past me and over to a suitcase and starts pulling some clothes out. 

“Here. I know it’s all too big for you, but it’ll be more comfortable than your dress.”

I look at the t-shirt and pajama bottoms he offers me and I’m feeling genuinely grateful for them at the moment. “Thanks.”

He gives me a small, tired smile. “You’re welcome. I’m going to bed now...do you need anything else?”

“Well, uhm....”

He looks at me and waits.

“My gun…”

He smiles. “Of course. I’ll get it.”

I close my eyes tightly and rub my forehead, wondering if I should have aborted that request. Have I just allowed him to empty my clip or something? Would he do that at this point?

He’s back, my purse in his hand, and he walks to me and offers it up. I look at him, a bit sheepishly, and take it. “It’s okay, Scully. I can’t sleep without mine, either.”

I smirk at that and feel a little less foolish. He smiles back, briefly, then he turns towards the door and starts to pull it closed behind him. “Goodnight, Krycek.”

He looks back at me and smiles again. “Goodnight, Agent Scully.”

I stare at the door as he pulls it closed, then manage to stand with my weight on my good, left foot, as I work my ruined nylons off and then worm my way out my dress. Because of the company I’m in, I consider leaving my bra on, but it’s been biting into me for hours. I get rid of the horrible thing and toss it onto my dress and then pull his large t-shirt on. It’s so big that it hangs almost to my knees. That’s good enough for me right now. I don’t even pick up the pajama bottoms. 

Finally, I unsnap my purse, find my gun and, I can’t help myself, I check the clip before shoving it under the pillow. I find I’m not all that surprised at all that Krycek hasn’t tampered with it. Then, with a profound sense of relief, I crawl under the covers and sigh happily, looking forward to getting some sleep. My eyes are closed before my head even hits the pillow and, despite the softly throbbing pain in my foot, I’m asleep in a matter of seconds.


	8. Chapter 8

NOTE: The end of this chapter is NC-17. Go away if you're under age or if you're offended by graphic depictions of sexual activity.

 

November 12  
Washington, DC

 

I’m awakened by the text message on my phone at 9:07 and reply to it quickly. I reluctantly get out of bed, use the bathroom, pull my jeans on, and walk out to the living room to await my delivery. The bellboy knocks just as I am rounding the armchair, and I deposit another fifty into his hand as I take the bags from him and send him on his way. I sit on the couch with my new purchases and pull a couple things out that I’m keeping for myself, then pull open the Nordstrom shopping bags to take a look at the things their personal shopper has picked out for Scully. 

After I left her in her room last night I went back to the kitchen and cleaned up the broken glass and water on the floor and then made a call to the front desk and had them arrange for these things to be added to my bill. You see, I want to do everything I can think of to keep Scully here in my suite as long as possible, and that means ensuring that she’s comfortable. I know her style, I know her sizes, I know that she tends to get cold easily, and I also know what brands she tends to wear. So I asked for a pair of jeans, a couple long sleeve t-shirts, and a sweater. I asked for socks and slippers--she’s certainly not going to be wearing those heels she wore with her dress anytime soon. I thought about tennis shoes, or loafers, but I figured her foot might be too tender for those. And then, after a moment’s consideration, I went ahead and also ordered underwear. I asked that everything be plain, solid, reserved colors, and that the fabrics be warm and comfortable. I am happy with what they’ve selected, it all feels like it would blend in with her usual wardrobe. I hold one of the t-shirts up, a thick, mottled brown henley, with a series of small buttons at the neck and marvel at how small it is. I bring it to my own chest and realize I wouldn’t be able to get an arm through the thing. The other t-shirt is a plain smooth cream colored v-neck. The long, moss green cardigan seems cozy. It’s thick cashmere, sort of fuzzy, with pockets and a belt, and brown wooden-looking buttons. The price tag reads $315. What the hell, I don’t care. I requested cashmere, and she loves this brand and probably would never buy something so expensive for herself. I’d happily pay ten times that if it meant she’d stay a while. Then there’s a 3-pack of white socks, a 3-pack of pastel colored panties, and a simple, white cotton bra. There’s nothing remotely lacy, frilly or sexy about them, but I drop them back into the bag quickly, as if they’ve burned me. I don’t want to think about them. The slippers are basic, spa white, too, and they look warm and, like everything else, impossibly small.

I also ordered a random assortment of toiletries. Toothbrush, deodorant, etc. I asked that they add some bandages for her foot and miscellaneous other things. I hope I thought of everything. If I’m really, really lucky it will be enough to keep her here all day.

I place everything back in the shopping bags and head back to my room, stopping at Scully’s door to hang the bags gently and quietly from the knob. I keep walking, almost stumbling from the sheer exhaustion, to my bedroom and pull my jeans off again and get back into bed. I only got to sleep about 3 hours ago. My body is resentful of this disruption and is demanding more rest. 

I lie back and picture her. I feel like I should rein it in since she’s here under this roof, but I can’t seem to stop the images from springing up. I see her in that purple dress, standing up and tossing her hair, then smiling when she spotted me. I think, almost guiltily, of tearing her stockings from her leg. Guilty because of how much I enjoyed it and how much I wanted to rip them off completely from both legs. I think of how much I wanted to slide my hand over the curve of her firm, shapely calf, up to tickle the satiny softness of the underside of her knee, and up further still to that tiny bit of naked thigh I got to glimpse before I willed myself to stop, to not look up her dress while I sat in front of her on the floor and tended to her injury. I remember how warm and small her foot was, as I held it in my hand to steady her as I worked. I can vividly see her squirming, her body reclined back on her elbows, chest thrusting up when the pain hit, her fingers making little fists, grasping at the comforter. I see her remarkably pretty face wincing, eyes sqeezed tight, mouth agape, looking for all the world like a woman in the throes of passion. Is it supremely fucked up that I remember the smell of her blood while I watched her writhe, and that the iron tang of it in my mouth and my nostrils only made made me harder for her in that moment?

I see her as she read me the riot act in the restaurant, I remember how the panic shot through me as she stood, both her eyes and words burning me, making me break out into a cold sweat, and I smile remembering my victory, convincing her to stay. 

I wish I could have found some way of picking her up and carrying her into this bedroom with me. But she’s on the other side of that wall, and while it’s not what I most wanted, it’s honestly better than I ever could have hoped for. She’s not at home. She’s here. She stayed. And she’s in that bed that I slept in last night and she’s wearing my clothes. And I’m wondering if she can smell me in that bed and if my scent arouses her like hers arouses me. I’m wondering how she would smell now, with my scent on her skin. And that thought, and the delicious images it’s conjuring, is making me harder. Too hard to ignore. 

I turn onto my side and bring forward the memory of her I’ve replayed a hundred times since I last saw her...the memory of waking to find her spooned up behind me in her parents’ cabin, her arm around my waist. It still strikes me as so surprisingly stirring, so sweetly sexy that she opened her fingers wide to allow me to lace mine into them. The intimacy of it easily matching, maybe even surpassing, the the sensation of her impossibly soft, warm breasts pressing into my back with her every breath. And then there’s the sound of her voice, both husky and honeyed, uttering my name. “Alex.” I say it myself softly, quietly, trying and failing miserably, to mimic hers.

Then my memory melds into fantasy as I bring our joined hands down, flattening them out and guiding hers to press firmly against the insistant, throbbing need between my legs, to slowly open my belt and unbutton my jeans. I take myself out, imagining her small, soft hand instead of my own large, rough one. And I am so ready now that all it takes to bring me off is to envision the way she glared at me in all her furious glory in the motel parking lot in Tennessee before darting her eyes behind me and bringing her tongue out to lick at the corner of her mouth.

Jesus Fucking Christ. Works...EVERY...time. I bite my lip to muffle the moaning of her name that has become my mantra every night since I left her in North Carolina. 

Once my breathing returns to normal I clean myself up, roll onto my back, and smile serenely through my hormonal haze as I realize I’ll get to see her when I wake up. I can hardly wait. I fall quickly into the sleep I slept as a child on Christmas Eve...so eager to sleep because I’m so eager to wake.


	9. Chapter 9

November 12  
Washington, DC

 

I don’t emerge from my room until almost 1:00 pm. My hair is still damp from the shower when I greet her. She’s wearing her new clothes, a fresh bandage around her foot, looking rather comfortable on the couch with her feet up on the coffee table and a pillow underneath them. The room smells faintly sweet from the orange she’s recently eaten. The peel sits discarded beside a tea bag on a plate that’s next to her nearly empty mug. I smile at her, loving the sight of her in my space. Loving the color of her hair against that green sweater. Loving how at home she looks. 

“How’s your foot?”

She looks down at her bandage and flexes her ankle. “It’s a little sore when I put my full weight on it, but I think your diagnosis holds. I think I’ll live.”

My smile grows, remembering how she teased me about that. “Do you need anything?”

She looks down at her torso, her legs, and gestures broadly at herself, “You’ve thought of just about everything I could need, I think.”

“I just wanted you to have something more comfortable than your dress and heels. I hope you don’t mind.”

“It’s a little weird that it all fits so well, but it’s probably in your best interest if we don’t talk about that.“ 

I had braced myself for a harsher response, but her words still make me shift my weight and feel a bit uneasy. “Well, I...”

The knock at the door interrupts me and I give her a slow, sly smile, recognizing my luck. “Brunch?”

She shakes her head and rolls her eyes. “You really do have the most impeccable timing, don’t you?”

I’m at the door now, so she can’t see my grin, but she can probably hear it in my voice as I tip the bellboy.

I bring the food over to the couch and set the tray down near her feet, then pour some coffee for both of us and we eat while we talk about the medical files. She assures me that she has a theory, but she won’t tell me what it is. She needs to look at more of the data. She needs more time. Whatever her theory is, it seems to be weighing on her as heavily as it was last night, so I don’t push her.

I clear away our dishes after we’ve eaten, pour more coffee, and then pick up my own computer to settle into the other corner of the couch and try to get into work mode again. It takes me some time, though. I keep stealing glances at her, watching her eyes skim the screen from behind her glasses. Watching her take occasional sips from her coffee cup. Every little thing she does bears an air of intelligence and dignity. I am utterly smitten. 

But if I ever hope to have even a modicum of my admiration returned, I’d better pull myself together and at least attempt to show her that I can be smart, too. Or at least useful. Focus, Alex. Get to work.

Several hours pass, each of us with a computer in our lap, each of us feeling rather drained and raw. I get to the end of a page and close my laptop with a satisfyingly loud click and lean forward to half-toss it onto the coffee table. I’m sick of looking at it. Scully glances up to see what this little disturbance is about, and offers me a small, tight, understanding smile, but goes quickly back to her own work. I get up and walk into the kitchen for some water. 

The work today has been grueling and disturbing and downright depressing. Scully has been analyzing the data and I’ve been cross-referencing the names, locations, and medical personnel. It’s so massive it makes my head spin. I can’t fathom that all of these doctors and nurses and technicians knew what they were doing, knew they were part of this horrifying conspiracy...it can’t be possible. Even MY twisted, cynical brain can’t wrap itself around such a miserable thought.

There’s a knock at the door, and Scully’s eyes slide over to it, then over to me, asking without words if she should go for her gun. She’s frozen, on high alert. We’re both so tense and disturbed by the day’s work. “It’s just room service. I called them an hour ago, remember?” 

She releases the breath she was holding and then takes her glasses off and takes the interruption as an opportunity to stretch and rub her eyes as I move to answer the door. I look through the peephole and see the bellboy there with the cart. “You can leave it there.” I slide a fifty under the door. “Thanks.” 

“Thank you, sir! Let me know if you need anything else!” I watch him walk away and wait another minute before opening the door and pulling the cart inside. 

“Come on, Scully, you need a break, too.”

“Yeah, uhm, I’m almost done.”

I take the cart into the little dining room and set the platters of food on the nearby counter and arrange the table for us, feeling grateful once again that I not only have real food to eat, but I also have someone to eat with. For the second time today...actually, this is the third consecutive meal we’ve eaten together. I’m gonna miss the hell out of this when it’s gone. 

I’m opening the wine when she hobbles into the dining area. I’m about to ask about her foot again, but she’s faster. “Jesus, Krycek. Are you planning on eating all of this?”

I smile as I work the cork loose. “Yes, I am. We missed breakfast, remember? I’m starving. You should fix your plate before I eat everything else.”

I pour the wine as she accepts my offer, spooning food onto her plate. She sits and I place a glass in front of her. I watch her eat for a moment before turning to fix my own plate. I’m starting to get melancholy. It’s beginning to get dark...she’s got to be thinking about going home. I really don’t want her to. 

I sit across from her and don’t allow myself to make eye contact. I just stab at a carrot with my fork and start eating. The enormity of what we’ve uncovered is taking its toll on me and I don’t want to be alone. But I don’t want to talk right now, either. I’m afraid if I do I’ll say things that will only drive her away faster. I don’t want to spook her again and have her run away. I feel like I’ve gained a little of her trust, and I couldn’t stand losing it now.

It dawns on me that maybe this is exactly what’s wrong with Fox Mulder. He’s in the same damned position I’ve found myself in...wanting her desperately, completely in love with her, and not acting on it because the thought of losing her is too painful to bear. Better to have part of her, to have her companionship at least, better to be able to drink in all her brilliance and beauty from arms length, than to have nothing at all. Maybe the guy’s not as much of a pathetic, cowardly loser as I had surmised. Jesus. How could he possibly have endured this cruel dichotomy for so many years? How is he not locked up in a padded cell? 

Am I developing actual sympathy for Mulder? Christ. What is it about this woman? And how long am I going to remain ensnared? I dwell on that last question for some time and the longer I think about it, the more depressed I become. I’m beginning to realize that the answer has absolutely nothing to do with me. It’s her decision, not mine. I’m at her mercy. 

I drain my glass and stand to grab the bottle. 

“I think I’ve found the pattern.”

I freeze in place, but manage to turn to look her in the eye after hearing that. “What is it?” My voice is hesitant. I’m not sure I want to know.

“It’s Influenza. That is, it seems to be connected to the flu vaccine.”

“Jesus.” I find that we’re just staring at each other, both of us with our mouths open. The sheer audacity of what she’s proposing makes me want to scoff, yet I recognize that it makes sense in light of the information I’ve been sorting through. “That would explain the variations...because it mutates so quickly…”

My voice trails off and we just keep looking at each other in silence. We’re both thinking the same thoughts but we don’t dare speak them aloud. The bastards have been tampering with the flu vaccines and tracking each recipient to monitor their reactions to it. They’ve been doing it for at least 2 years, which means that literally hundreds of millions of Americans have been unwittingly involved in their experiment.

In the midst of my brooding I suddenly remember a conversation I had last year with a colleague connected to the World Health Organization who works on influenza vaccination programs. He made a comment that struck me as odd, and I didn’t understand what he meant. But maybe I do now...an extension of Scully’s theory pops into my head and I exhale harshly, loudly, and pull my sleeve back to look at my watch. It’s after 1:00 am in Tunis. I pull my phone out and dial the number anyway.

Scully watches me closely as I greet my contact in his native tongue and apologize for the late hour. I’m pretty sure she doesn’t understand Arabic, so when he engages me in the customary chit chat that must always precede the real conversation, and asks me what I’m currently doing, I indulge myself a bit by admitting to having dinner with a beautiful woman. He congratulates me so heartily that I’m sure Scully can hear his delighted laughter through the receiver. I sincerely hope she doesn’t understand his poetic visions of love and romance that I can’t seem to stop him from spouting. I glance at her, feeling a little embarrassed that he’s taken my casual comment so far, but her somewhat blank expression tells me I’ll most likely live to see another day. 

It takes me 4 or 5 more minutes to finally steer my friend to the topic at hand. I ask him about the comment he made last year about the flu vaccines, and he hesitates. I offer him my theory and his silence effectively confirms my suspicion. After a brief pause, I reassure him that he did NOT tell me anything--that he gave no secrets away--and apologize again for waking him, and then I remind him I need to get back to my dinner companion. 

I hang up the phone and look at Scully, who still looks confused. I turn to her and try to speak but I’m still processing everything. And then, all of a sudden, as this new revelation sinks in, a huge smile of relief blooms across my face.

Her brows slowly knit themselves together and she looks at me sideways, not sure what to make of my sudden change in mood, but she also smiles hesitantly back at me, “What’s going on, Krycek?”

I want to answer her, allay her tension, I honestly do, and I feel rather guilty that I’ve been rendered incapable of speech, but I can’t help it. I just burst into laughter. I cover my face with my hands and laugh so hard that I nearly double over from it and tears start streaming down my cheeks and between my fingers.

“Alex, answer me! What the hell?!”

I pull my hands away and catch my breath to give her the news. “You were right, Scully--it’s the flu vaccine. And it’s not just the United States, it’s global.”

She looks utterly horrified.

“But, NO! No, no no!!!! It’s not what we thought, though! It’s the black oil vaccine!”

Now she cocks her head a little and looks more confused.

“Don’t you see? Everyone who’s gotten a flu shot has also gotten the alien virus vaccine! There have to be hundreds of millions of people who have been protected! Maybe billions--how many flu vaccines are given out every year?”

She’s just staring at me, her mouth wide open, trying to absorb this new information. And then I practically see the relief wash over her. Suddenly she’s laughing, and then her tears start to flow, too, and then all of a sudden, she’s nearly knocking the wind out of me with the full force of her body flying into my arms. 

She’s pushed me back right into the cabinets so it takes a moment to steady myself. When I do, I wrap my arms around her, walk her backwards, away from the wall and table so I have enough room to haul her up off the floor and spin her around. As she squeals in my ear--actually squeals--I think maybe I understand the delirium of the soldiers on V-Day that my grandfather tried to describe to me when I was a kid. 

I put her down, let her go, rush to the fridge, pull out the complimentary bottle of champagne I almost never drink, and untwist the wire. A couple seconds later the cork pops loudly and it makes us both laugh even harder, and then I bring the bottle to my lips, take a huge, bubbly swig of it, not caring in the least that the foam is pouring down my chin and my arm, and hand it over to Scully before opening some cabinets to find some proper glasses.

When I turn back to her, she’s practically choking on the champagne while trying to swallow and laugh at the same time. And that makes me laugh more, and she hears me laugh and it makes her scrunch her eyes closed and laugh some more, and then suddenly she’s leaning against me again, as if she can’t even hold herself up under her own power. Her forehead is shaking against the middle of my chest and her arms are shaking around my waist, and I barely even flinch at the cold bottle as it briefly makes contact with my thin t-shirt, because I’m just so delighted to feel this relief and to be this close to her and to know that I’ve been able to give her such good news. I push the glasses I just found onto a nearby counter so I can fully wrap my arms around her shoulders and rock with her as we ride out this unexpected chain reaction through our happy tears.

After a few minutes we start to calm down and pull apart so we can take another couple swigs from the champagne bottle. Those glasses I found have been abandoned and I don’t even care. We look at each other, still smiling widely, still feeling giddy like we’re coming down to Earth from an amazing high. We both let out a long, contented sigh at the exact same time and for some reason that makes us start to giggle again. But this time it only lasts for a brief moment and then we sink back down into our chairs at the dinner table. My stomach growls and I remember that we didn’t get very far into our meal before the phone call.

‘God, I’m still starving!” And we’re still smiling at each other.

We both pick up our forks and dig in again, with much more enthusiasm this time.

“It’s barely warm.” She crinkles her nose up, but she’s still smiling.

God, she’s adorable. I think I’m in love with her dimples. “Yeah. I don’t care.”

She shrugs and smiles back at me. “Yeah, me neither.”

I don’t think there’s much of anything right now that could spoil our mood. We finish eating our luke warm meal quickly, but happily, and then we both dive eagerly into desert and more champagne. It all makes me feel like I’m the luckiest guy on the planet, and maybe that’s why I still can’t wipe this damn goofy smile off my face.


	10. Chapter 10

NOTE: The end of this chapter is NC-17. Go away if you're under age or if you're offended by graphic depictions of sexual activity between two gorgeous, consenting adults.

 

It’s only about 9:00 pm, and we got a late start today after working very, very late last night, so it hasn’t been a particularly long day, but we’re both feeling drained. This work we’ve been doing has been intense, and I’m really feeling good now since we’ve discovered that the medical files weren’t the threat we originally thought they were, but I’m also feeling really wiped out from the rollercoaster of emotions it’s wrought. We’ve eaten, we’ve got a nice buzz going from the champagne, and now we’re winding down. As great as I feel about the medical records, there’s a sense of dread that’s falling over me, knowing that Scully is going to leave soon, and then I’m going to be heading out of town in two days to fly halfway across the world for a couple months. I’m not looking forward to either.

When we leave the dining area, Scully walks right through the living room and into the bedroom she slept in the night before. I guess this is it. She’ll gather her things and head out in a couple minutes. I sit down in the armchair that faces the hallway and hunch back into it, feeling defeated and yet resolved. I knew this moment would come, and I got to spend more time with her than I ever thought I would, so I need to start feeling grateful and lucky instead of miserable and pathetic. I stretch my arms out over my head, closing my tired eyes and listening. I hear the faint flush of the toilet and then water running in the sink, and wonder what I can possibly say to her before she leaves. “Thank you,” seems so miserably inadequate. How do you tell someone that they’ve made a profound and everlasting impression on you, that you’re so thankful to have been able to get to know them, even a little bit? That you’re going to miss them the second they leave and you’re going to think about them every day for the next few months until you can see them again? 

I hear her footsteps approaching and it makes me clench my eyes even tighter. I don’t want to face this. But I have to. Be a man, Alex. Open your damn eyes and help her with her things and walk her to her car and thank her for all the work she did for you. Open your damn eyes.

When I do, I audibly gasp in surprise. She’s standing at the end of the hall, looking at me, and she’s wearing the t-shirt and pajama bottoms I loaned her last night. 

I can’t help but stare. Her makeup is gone, my clothes are hanging off of her tiny frame, and she looks simultaneously 20 years old and sexy as hell. And she’s essentially announcing that she’s going to spend another night here with me. Is today my birthday or something? Did I do something right somewhere along the line that has earned me this rare and beautiful reward? I’m starting to contemplate the possible existence of karma when she finally speaks, misinterpreting my reaction.

“I’m sorry...I think I’ve been presumptuous…”

I open my mouth to start to tell her how much I’d love to see her wearing my clothes every single night for the rest of my miserable life, how there’s absolutely nothing I can even conceive of that she could EVER do that I’d consider presumptuous, how I’m very nearly in tears right now by simply being in her presence, but then I close my mouth and my eyes as I realize what a bad idea that is. I promised her last night that I’d be professional, and since then she’s been more comfortable and she’s stayed and she’s even warmed up to me a bit. So don’t fuck it up with one of your flirty, wise-ass remarks, Alex.

So what the hell is the appropriate, professional response to seeing her wearing my pajamas? To knowing that she wants to spend the night again?

I bite my lip, and try to find the words. 

“Krycek? Are you alright?”

I open my eyes to find her looking at me with concern. She’s so fucking breathtaking. 

She steps towards me. “Krycek?”

I manage to open my mouth again, but nothing comes out. One more step brings her in so close that I could reach out and touch her. So close I can smell her. 

I close my eyes again, my breathing becoming rapid, and will her to move away. Instead, I feel the back of her small hand press gently against my forehead, testing for fever. I want to tell her that if she detects any, it’ll be her own damn fault.

“Alex?” Her voice is soft and and full of concern. Why the hell does she have to use my first name?

My hand moves up, fingers wrapping around her wrist, and holding her hand away from me but not letting her go. I’m practically panting now. I can’t believe how incredibly beautiful she is. I’m overwhelmed by her and I don’t know what to do about it.

I decide that it’s probably best to just let go and move as far away from her as possible, so I do exactly that. “I’m okay, Scully.” I release her hand, pushing it gently away from me as I stand, and then walk into the kitchen.

When I get there, I pour myself a glass of water. I gulp it down greedily and then hold the cool, empty glass to my forehead as she steps into view and leans against the door frame.

I wish I knew how to ignore her. I wish I could pull my eyes away from her. 

“Should I go?”

I hesitate for a couple seconds before deciding that if I’m going to maintain any level of trust I’ve earned with her so far, then honesty is the best policy. 

“I don’t want you to go. I really don’t. But I think it would be for the best.”

She looks at me steadily. There’s no confusion now, she seems to understand my dilemma. After a long moment she closes her eyes and sighs heavily. It makes me feel like I’ve disappointed her somehow. I hope she understands that she’d be much, much more disappointed in me if I asked her to stay.

She turns and walks back into the living room, and once she’s out of sight, I let out my own long sigh before filling my glass again and tossing the water back in a couple long draughts.

I’m so tired. I let myself slump into one of the chairs and rest my head, covering my face with my hands and letting my fingertips rub hard at my eyes. I knew she’d have to leave eventually, but I never imagined I’d be the one to tell her to go. God, Alex, she was going to stay another night, you idiot. What the hell’s wrong with you? 

“Alex?” 

Her voice startles me and I jerk my head up quickly to look at her. As I take in her appearance and proximity, I can only give her a quizzical look. Why is she still in my clothes? And why is she moving in so close to me?

Without another word she takes my right hand in both of hers and tugs gently until I find myself on my feet and standing in front of her. Then she releases my hand and steps in, pressing herself against me and wrapping both her arms around me. 

I’m so stunned that I can’t move. My arms are just hanging at my sides. And then I’m too terrified to move. If I touch her I won’t be able to stop. God, is that what she wants? Does she know what she’s doing?

Her hands slide from my back to the front of my ribcage as she pushes herself away, holding herself at arms length, and she looks up from under her lashes, giving me a soft, unsure smile. She looks shy and adorable and sexy and I feel myself about to do something stupid. It’s all I can do to stop and catch my breath. Instead, I try to pull her hands away from me as I look her in the eyes and issue a stern warning. “Agent Scully, you’re making it incredibly difficult to stay in professional mode.” 

That smile of hers grows into the sexiest, most radiant expression I’ve seen yet, and as I begin to melt from it, she squeezes my hands, bites her lip, and then utters one small word that threatens to change my life forever. 

“Good.”

Suddenly my hands are cupping her jaw and my head is dipping down to reach her mouth. I stop to take one last lingering look at her lips, my thumb daring to swipe over her obscenely indecent bottom one, before I close my eyes and finally taste her. 

Her arms lock around my neck, insisting that my mouth stay on hers, as her fingers comb through my hair and her nails scratch deliciously across my scalp. I groan loudly, feverishly, as that little pink tongue of hers, the one I’ve been seeing in my fantasies for months, flicks against me, demanding entrance. Her passion surprises me with it’s intensity. She’s kissing me with such fervor, and she’s moaning continuously into my mouth, and her hands are beginning to roam over every inch of my body she can reach. 

My hands splay themselves out to cover as much of her back as they can, and then pull her in to me, wanting her as close as possible. When she feels my erection against her stomach, she groans even louder, presses her hips against me, and simultaneously plunges her tongue into my mouth as deeply as she can. Then her hands clutch at my shoulders, tugging hard, and I think she might just start climbing right up my body. 

I think that might be the best idea she’s ever had, which is saying a whole hell of a lot, so I decide to help her out. I reach down and grab her perfect little ass with both hands and pull her in against me roughly, then release her, and then pull her in again, giving my deliriously happy, overly-excited dick some of the friction he’s begging for, before sliding my hands down to her thighs and hoisting her up. I turn and deposit her onto the kitchen counter and then force myself to step away.

I try to get my heart rate and breathing under control while I stare at her and try to ascertain whether she’s being serious or if she’s just playing around and teasing me. Her hair is a gorgeous, sexy mess and it’s covering a third of her face, obscuring half of one of those blue, blue eyes. Her chest is heaving, her mouth is wet and open, she’s gulping in air through deep red, bee-stung lips, and she’s grasping the edge of the counter, leaning forward and eyeing me like a starving animal. She looks pretty damn serious to me.

I absolutely leer at her as I drink her in. I’m the luckiest son of a bitch on planet Earth. In the Milky Way galaxy. In the entire known universe.

I narrow my eyes and stalk closer, feeling like a predator coming in for the kill, and she rewards me by biting her lip around another sexy smile. I step in closer and she opens her thighs, inviting me to lose what little is left of my mind, and I place my hands on her knees. Her legs straighten out, then hook behind mine and slowly draw me in. I hover over her exquisite face, a filthy, delighted smile on my lips, and then we simply stare at each other for long seconds, both of us seemingly in awe of the other. 

She places her hands on top of mine, then slides them slowly up her thighs, up to her hips before letting me go so she can slide her hands all the way up my arms, across my shoulders, then around my neck. My fingers sink into her soft flesh and as I pull her hips forward, her fingers press firmly at the base of my skull to pull my head down within reach. 

She lunges for my mouth with a deep, hungry growl, and then she proceeds to do her damnedest to suck the life right out of me.


	11. Chapter 11

This chapter is NC-17. Go away if you're under age or if you're offended by graphic depictions of sexual activity between two gorgeous, consenting adults.

 

November 13-14  
Washington, DC

 

Dear god, this man is utterly delicious. The taste of his lips, his tongue, his teeth, the prickle of stubble on his jaw, the taut, salty skin stretched over the muscle and sinew of his neck...I have to sink my teeth into it, I have to breathe him in through my nostrils. I have to eat him alive, I have to fill my mouth, my throat, my stomach with his flesh and blood. Alex Krycek has turned me into a cannibal, a vampire. 

“Scully! God, you're gonna give me a fuckin' hickey!” 

He’s got me by the shoulders, pushing me away from him. I blink and watch in awe and frustration as a thin strand of saliva breaks, falls from my lips and disappears against the glistening, wet patch of skin connecting his shoulder to his throat. It’s bright pink from my attention, and I grin evilly at it. I have never been more pleased with myself.

I’m still looking at it longingly, preparing to lunge for it again, when he presses his lips to me instead. His tongue vies for dominance, plunging into my mouth, but I will not be dissuaded from my own agenda. I don’t recognize the deep, guttural, primordial sounds this frenzied kissing is wrenching from my throat, but I love them. They lend power to my tongue, giving me the extra edge required to move his out of my way and reclaim the warm, champagne-tinged cavern of his mouth. 

He gives in, lets me win. He seems to be enjoying his defeat, as he groans contentedly and his hands roam over me to grasp, prod and pinch in ways that make me even more delirious and desperate for him. I rub against him, feel his warm skin through layers of clothing, and growl. Or was that him? Our teeth clash. I think it was both of us.

Satisfied that he’s not going anywhere, I pull my mouth from his, letting us both breathe before one of us passes out from lack of oxygen.

“Jesus, woman.” He’s panting, his lips are swollen and glistening, his eyes are absolutely wild, and I’m so fucking turned on to realize that I’m the one who put that depraved look on his face. I can’t help but smile a cruel, wicked smile as I take him in. I wanna fuck. him. up.

He reads my mind and the narrowing of his eyes, the twitch in his upper lip tells me he’s more than ready to fuck me up right back. “I’m gonna take you to the bedroom now.”

My smile retreats as I bite my lip and then swallow hard and nod.

“I’m gonna take you to bed. And I’m gonna rip your clothes off. And then I’m gonna…”

He stops and just stares at me. I can feel the heat radiating off him.

I lift my chin in defiance and dare him to say it. “You’re gonna do what?” 

“I’m gonna fuck you." 

My face probably looks as stunned as his to actually hear the words spoken aloud. I watch him watch me, gaging my reaction. He must spot the encouragement in my eyes.

"I'm gonna fuck you till the sun comes up.” 

My smile creeps back slowly. “Promise?”

His lips land on mine again and I have no idea which of us is moaning loudest, but we seem to be in competition, trying to outdo the other.

And then his oversized t-shirt is being dragged up, and we separate just long enough for it to be pulled over my head and thrown angrily to the floor. Then I feel his hands at my back and my bra pops loose and he’s pulling it down my arms and throwing it towards the shirt. I grab the hem of his shirt and he helps me get rid of it, too, and then I press my now naked skin against his and we start the moaning contest all over again. God he feels amazing.

He picks me up from the counter and sets my feet down on the floor, but I don’t get a single step in before he swipes his arm under my knees and carries me like a baby through the kitchen, the living room, and once more into the bedroom. This time I’m not hurt. This time he’s going to stay. This time it’s going to be so much more fun.

My teeth nip at his neck during the short trip, then my tongue laves at the indentation marks they leave, soothing them, apologizing sweetly for the violence done to his beautiful skin. And I listen to him babble about God and Jesus and Dana and Christ as I lick and suck at his earlobe and sink my nails into his scalp. 

And suddenly I’m bouncing against the mattress and he’s tugging the too-long legs of my pajamas down, the cuffs I rolled up just a few minutes before now coming undone in his fingers, covering up the bandage on my foot and trying to slide further down...but I’ve cinched them and tied them around my waist, and my hips are keeping them up. 

He reaches up and pulls one side of the drawstring, watching the bow I tied shrink and then pop loose. He looks very pleased with himself as he hooks his fingers under the waistband and tugs it up away from my skin, allowing him more room to work with. He settles back on his haunches again and he smiles that sexy smile as he grabs the cuffs once more and this time manages to pull the pants all the way down my legs. He stops and stares, talking to Jesus again, as he discovers I am sans underwear. His eyes roam hungrily over my naked body before he places his large hands over my knees and pushes them apart. And I watch, enraptured, as he bends in and licks my vulva from bottom to clit with the flat of his tongue. He stares up into my eyes, licking his lips and giving me a look that nearly stops my heart. 

“Fucking ambrosia.” It’s a prayer delivered with a snarl, and it makes me lightheaded. Then I see his head dip again just before I collapse onto my back, close my eyes and let him make me moan and writhe and curse and gasp as he uses that beautiful mouth of his to drive me completely insane. 

One of his hands grasps at my breast, the other one pumps two thick fingers into me, as his lips close around my swollen clit and suck gently, bringing on my orgasm and making me claw at his head, his arm, every bit of him within my reach, as my body bucks up against his mouth over and over and I chant his name a hundred thousand times as I shudder and finally fall back to the bed, sweaty and sated.

He crawls up next to me, wraps his arms around me, and nuzzles my neck as I come down and try to catch my breath. He nibbles at my jaw and I turn my head to capture his lips, sucking his plump bottom one into my mouth and licking the smoky, tangy taste of myself from him. I twist my whole body towards him, wanting more. Eager and thirty for more of him.

“Not fair.” I whisper into his ear as my hand cups him through his jeans and I realize he’s still half-clothed. “Off. Now.” I demand and start to unbuckle his belt. His hands join mine and he’s naked in 5 seconds flat. I wrap my hand around him and he watches with a smug smirk as my eyes go wide. He’s so thick that my fingers barely touch. I tug at him, thrilled and a bit frightened by his size, and discover that he’s also a bit longer than anyone else I’ve been with. It’s going to be a tight fit. 

I look into his beautiful face and see the lust and reverence there and smile again. I’m a damned lucky girl. 

He smiles back and kisses me hard, and I realize I’m still holding him, hard and throbbing, in my hand. I stroke him and pull back to watch his face go slack with pleasure, and he’s so exquisitely beautiful that I think I could probably be happy watching him like this for the rest of my life, but I think we both want more than this. I push at his chest and he lets me tumble him over onto his back. I kiss him deep as I straddle him and slowly move my mouth down his chin to his throat, tongue swirling over his Adam’s apple and then dipping into the little valley at the base of his throat, between his clavicles. 

His hands grasp at my hips, pulling me down onto him, pressing his cock into my stomach and moaning his relief upon feeling naked skin against him. I slowly drag my mouth and my body down his, loving the feel of him between my breasts as I kiss his chest and stomach, loving the feel of his hands in my hair, loving the feel of my hands on his deltoids and pectorals. Loving the sounds he’s making. Loving the taste of his skin. Dying to taste more.

I slide a little lower, tilt my head down and press my tongue to the tip as I open my mouth to wrap my lips around the head. I sink down, take him deeper into my mouth and moan at the taste of him, once more wanting to eat him whole. We find a rhythm, my mouth and tongue massaging him, my moans reverberating around him, his words, begging, pleading, cursing, praising, his fingers combing through my hair and finally holding my head gently, thrusting, pumping, and then his climax, bittersweet against my tongue and I groan and swallow, wanting it all, so happy I finally have a boiling hot, salty part of him to devour. 

He pulls my head away slowly, his fingers clinched in my hair, and I reluctantly allow him to fall from my lips as he hisses and takes in huge lungfuls of air, his head lolling back and forth against the sheets, eyes wide open but not focusing. 

I reverse my journey, dragging myself up his body this time so I can lie beside him and kiss his neck again, softly, as he calms. “Christ, Dana. You’re going to fucking kill me.” I smile against his neck and lick a short trail up to his ear so I can whisper, “We’re just getting started, Alex. Dawn isn’t for another 7 hours.” 

He laughs incredulously as he rolls me over, “I’m a man of my word, Agent Scully, and I don’t make promises I can’t keep.” 

I reach up to cup his jaw in my hand and splay my fingers out, watching them play, savoring the prick of the tiny black hairs that threaten to burn me, slice me open, before looking back up into his feline eyes. “Promise me something else, Alex.”

He arches an eyebrow, perhaps a bit wary of what more I might ask for.

“Promise me you won’t be too gentle.”

The speed and sheer power with which he jumps up and over me, tearing the comforter out from under me, throwing pillows in every direction, knocking the bedside lamp to the floor and not caring, not stopping, growling like a fucking lion through clenched teeth...it makes me gasp and flinch in fear and shock. He looks and sounds utterly feral as he lowers his head, his eyes, observing my every movement through his eyelashes. 

“Be careful what you ask for, my darling. You might just get it.”

I have never been more thrilled, or more wet, in my entire life. As soon as he sees my smile he pounces. And it’s even better than I ever dreamed it could be.


	12. Chapter 12

NOTE: This chapter is NC-17. Go away if you're under age or if you're offended by graphic depictions of sexual activity between two gorgeous, consenting adults.

 

November 14  
Washington, DC

I wake in the middle of the night to the feel and sound of a soft sigh exhaled against the nape of my neck. I’m naked, feeling safe, warm, and sated in Alex’s arms and it makes me smile like a lovesick schoolgirl.

I snuggle back against him and sigh myself. He stirs and moans softly.

“God, Dana,’ he whispers into my neck, “I still can’t believe I’m not just dreaming.”

My smile widens at his words. Two or three months ago I wouldn’t have envisioned such a scenario in my wildest dreams. “I can’t imagine you ever would have dreamt about this.”

I feel him shaking his head as he chuckles. “Dana, every man in the Hoover Building dreams about taking you to bed.”

I laugh and shake my head at his joke. “You’re insane.”

“And about half the women.”

“Completely insane.”

“If you ever heard the comments I’ve heard you’d never stop kicking their asses. You should probably start by kicking mine.”

My eyes open wide at that. Alex talked about me? At the FBI? All those years ago? “What did you say about me?”

“Nothing that everyone present didn’t agree with 100%.”

“Everyone present? God, Alex, who was there?”

“Hmm...I guess the longest conversation I had about you was with Ferarra, Chapman, Powell, and Smith. And Mulder, of course.”

That last one makes me gasp. “Alex! You talked about me in front of Mulder?”

“We talked about you WITH Mulder. We went out for beers and we were all asking him how he could stand it...being around you day in and day out.”

“Stand it? That’s pretty grim.”

He chuckles at that. “Stand being around the drop-dead-gorgeous, uber-sexy Agent Scully without jumping her bones or spontaneously combusting.”

“What!?”

“We couldn’t believe it when he told us nothing physical had ever happened between you two. That he hadn’t even tried. I remember Smith, in particular, was truly appalled by that.”

“I hope he kicked all your asses.”

“He said something along the lines of you being an excellent agent whose intelligence, dedication and integrity made him proud to have you as a partner...and that you deserved our utmost respect. He also made it clear that we were all degenerate, puerile, Stone Aged, misogynistic pigs for placing so much emphasis on your looks instead of appreciating your brains and skills as an investigator and a pathologist. He also mentioned a couple of creative ways he’d inflict real harm on any of us if he ever even suspected that our lascivious comments ever got back to you.”

This makes me smile warmly, loving that my partner appreciated me and defended me even all those years ago. “Thank you, Mulder.”

“And then he said that some days it was a living hell. Said stakeouts were the worst because your scent drove him to distraction. Oh, and your skirts. You should know that he’s a leg man, Dana, and it’s really just cruel of you to wear anything other than pants.”

“He did NOT!”

“He said that every single time you wore your red suit--a suit that lives on to this day in FBI folklore, by the way--he’d have to ‘relieve himself’, I think is how he put it, in the bathroom at least once before lunch.”

“Alex! He did NOT!”

“And at least once after lunch.”

“ALEX!”

“Your utter cluelessness about your effect on the opposite sex is one of your most charming features, Dana. Although now that I’ve been introduced to so many of your other charms, I’m finding it a bit difficult to decide which ones I like most.” His hand cups my hip and he grinds his erection against me.

I moan his name and slowly our hips begin to undulate. What were we talking about? 

“I can’t believe you would tease Mulder like that.”

His fingers find my nipple as his lips and tongue begin to explore my neck. I feel a small, cool, wet spot on my ass, lubricating our flesh and eliciting a moan from Alex.

“I didn’t tease Mulder. But you sure as hell did. I’m sure you still do.”

“Alex…” I start to admonish him, but he’s maneuvered my hip into position and slid his cock into the crack of my ass.

“Poor Mulder. You were so fucking cute. So smart and defiant and confident. So full of piss and vinegar. It was adorable and alluring. But, god, Dana.” His hips begin to grind in earnest against me now. “We had no idea. No fucking idea how absolutely...stunning...you were going to become. How incredibly, ridiculously sexy you would become. And poor Mulder....poor Mulder has had to endure it every. single. day. Watching from across his damn desk, watching you blossom into this…” He pulls away from me suddenly, rolls me onto my back, crawls over me with the graceful, feral power of a lion, and locks his eyes on mine. “Into a fucking goddess.”

His pupils are dilated, his lids thick and heavy as he studies my face, my eyes, my mouth. He’s rendered me speechless again.

My eyes drift closed as he lowers his face to mine, places his lips softly against my left eyelid. 

“Rati,” he whispers with reverence, and kisses the lid sweetly.

He shifts to the other eye, “Bastet.” Kiss.

He brushes the tip of my nose with his own, then places his lips there. “Inanna.” Kiss.

His entire body drops gently down against mine, and my legs and arms automatically reach up for him, wrap around him, his lips now on my upturned chin. “Venus.” Kiss.

His cock nudges my swollen, dripping entrance and his mouth comes down on my lips, kissing me properly, stealing my breath, his tongue dueling with mine until we have to come up to gasp for air. We look at each other, wide-eyed now, in awe of this force of nature that we can create together.

He pushes his hips slowly, feeding me only a taste of his desire. Making me gasp.

“Aphrodite.” His lips come down on mine once more as he pushes home, languidly, cock and tongue penetrating in tandem. He bears his weight on his elbows and sweeps both arms under my shoulders, cupping them gently and pulling them down in counter to each sweet, delicious thrust. 

I’m drunk on his passion, on his astounding worship, on his gentleness, his reverence, his awe and adoration. My hands rest on his biceps, thrilling at the tensing and releasing of the muscles under my fingers, the power they contain, as he rocks into my body. My feet rest at his hips, knees wide and folded between us, allowing him easy access to my sex. 

I have never felt so open. Open to being penetrated, open to being loved, open to giving love. Open enough to entertain the idea that maybe, just maybe, I might be falling in love with Alex Krycek. This joining is slow, sensuous, unhurried. His hips tantalize me with their long, smooth, rocking motion. There is an innocence, an honesty, a vulnerability to it. An earnestness for deep, authentic connection. Connection of every kind, in every sense. 

I am completely overwhelmed by it. I feel loved, adored, strong, safe. I feel whole. I feel complete. I don’t want this to end.

His eyes lock on mine again, and I see it...all of it...reflected back to me. And I smile softly, trying to beam my love and joy and reverence to him, even as my tears begin to well up with the intensity of it all. “Alex.”

“God, Dana.” He kisses my mouth softly.

We sigh and moan and taste the saline of our mingled tears. We smile and laugh and moan some more. I bring my hand to his face, rest my palm gently on his stubbled cheek. 

“God, Dana!” his neck arches, head thrown back as he shudders against me, every muscle holding me tight against him, and I feel the thrilling spasm in my womb as he begins to empty himself inside. My own climax starts on the end of his. It’s soft and slow and gentle this time, and he pumps leisurely through it, drawing it out, even as he softens.

It's amazing. 

It's perfect. 


End file.
